


Still A Whisper

by gimmefire



Series: Saints Universe [3]
Category: Metallica
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-23
Updated: 2006-11-23
Packaged: 2017-12-05 02:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gimmefire/pseuds/gimmefire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> "I can't, Uli. I just...I can't."</i> It's been five days since the end of the world tour, since the end of a mighty chapter in the world of Metallica. But Jamie and Uli still have their own private chapter to close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still A Whisper

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place around two and a half weeks after the end of _The Folly of Wayward Saints_. The first of two 'deleted scenes' from the world of m'boy Lars.

"Hey, man."  
  
Lars blinked, green eyes going a little wide, before masking his surprise.  
  
"Um…hey, James."  
  
Five days had passed since the last date of the monumental Madly in Anger with the World Tour. Five days that Lars had largely spent sprawling out on his couch watching art documentaries, drinking beer and falling asleep at 3am. A residual Phil in the back of his head told him it was a personal rebellion (also the reason he'd been growing his hair out), and deeper, because he didn't want to sleep alone. As clichéd as it was, it was kind of true. Five days had passed and now, on the eve of the sixth, James stood on his doorstep.  
  
He hadn't called beforehand. Instantly, this pissed Lars off. He hated being left out of the loop, that was one thing. But mainly it was because he'd not been given time to prepare. Hadn't been given time to think about what he was going to say. Hadn't been given time to get blind drunk.  
  
Because he knew what was coming.  
  
"I thought…we should have that talk. Is that okay?"  
  
 _No._  
  
Lars stepped back, throat constricting already. "Sure."  
  
Once inside, the drummer scuffed into the kitchen, jerking his head at the fridge. "Get yourself a soda or something."  
  
James followed, turning to the unit, leaving Lars to pace back and forth a little, eyes on the floor, hands buried in his sweatpants pockets. Agitation practically radiated from him. He looked up on hearing James speak.  
  
"Guess I'll have a…Diet Coke with Lemon, then."  
  
The frontman turned, holding up a second can before tossing it towards his bandmate. Lars caught it easily, cracking it open and shrugging, totally frank. "Not like I've got anyone else to cater to for right now."  
  
The corner of James's mouth twitched, and he gave a little sigh, opening his soda and taking a gulp. "Are you glad the tour's over?" he asked, belching mid-sentence.  
  
"I'm glad to have some fuckin' peace and quiet," Lars replied, looking down intently at the ring pull as he picked at it. After a moment, he looked up at the taller man. "How long did you know?"  
  
He wasn't going to shy away from this. He wasn't going to dance around the issue, drawing all this crap out. It was going to hurt, so he wanted it to hurt short and fast and then he could get right back to the couch and Jackson Pollock and drool on the cushion. Right back to almost normal. _So let's get it over with and rip off that fucking band-aid, shall we?_  
  
His resolve wavered only slightly when James gave him a brief pained look. Fuck, it was those damned blue eyes – they could speak pain better than any other feeling. Lars tilted his chin up, green gaze steady, an outward projection of his grim determination to see this through. He wasn't going to buckle just because James looked like he needed a hug – they both, deep down, needed better than that. More. So he stood there and waited for an answer.  
  
James gave a small, slow nod, at what, Lars didn't know. His gaze dragged around the kitchen for a moment and flicked back to Lars as he spoke. "Too long."  
  
Lars's lips pursed a little, and he nodded himself. He vaguely noticed that the way they were stood, facing each other in an otherwise empty room, felt like a Mexican standoff. At that, his mind went back to the _Hero of the Day_ video shoot and those fucking ridiculous bandito and cowboy outfits they'd all had to wear – sombreros, cowboy hats, cockduster moustaches, the works. He'd played along gamely enough – sometimes he was in the mood for that kind of dicking around, sometimes he wasn't. Then again, sometimes he'd make out that he was cranky and moody, when secretly he was having a headbanger's ball. Couldn't have anyone actually figuring him out, could he?  
  
The director had called for him and Kirk, the banditos, to standoff against James and Jason, the cowboys, then draw his gun faster than James and shoot him. He did so, gleefully – come on, out-drawing James 'the Hunter' Hetfield? Not possible. But, thinking about it now, it drew comparisons with today, at least in Lars's head.  
  
They were both going to get their shots in, both having wronged the other. But Lars was going to make damn sure he'd get the last one.  
  
The drummer moved to lean against the countertop, breaking the 'standoff'. He nodded again.  
  
"Okay, yeah. Too long," he murmured, tapping his fingernails against the side of his can. He licked at his bottom lip before continuing. "I'm not saying that what you did justifies what I did, far from it, but…I'd like to have known if you weren't in love with me anymore." A quiet, humourless laugh escaped him as he brought his rueful gaze back up to his bandmate. "I'd have liked to have gotten that memo."  
  
James didn't seem to even bat an eyelid, asking a pointed question. "Would you have dealt with it? Would you have coped?"  
  
"Am I coping now?" Lars returned instantly.  
  
"It looks like it…I mean, you've got that…guy…"  
  
Lars wondered if James had intentionally let Billie's name slip his mind. He straightened up a little, giving a snort. "You think that fucking him is me coping?" He paused. His rising anger died down at the thought of his new lover, all smooth lines, soft eyes and exuberant smile, and he felt a little guilty at that last rhetorical question. His voice grew quieter as he brought out a little bit of truth, eyes on the frontman. "He's helping me. But I'll tell you right off the bat now, my feelings for him – and I _do_ have feelings for him – are a blip on the radar compared to what I felt for you. What I still feel for you, even."  
  
James winced slightly. Inwardly, Lars grinned in triumph. _Yeah, bang bang, fucking take_ that _, you asshole._  
  
The taller man watched Lars as he swigged his soda. "Does _he_ know that?"  
  
"I think he does," the drummer replied grimly, nodding. "But if he was standing right here, I'd say it to his face."  
  
Now it was James's turn to laugh humourlessly. He shook his head. "Even if it hurts him."  
  
Lars's gaze turned into a dark glare, grip tightening on his can as he got the distinct, extremely unpleasant feeling that he was being talked down to, or humoured, or something. Whatever it was, he didn't like it. That same darkness crept into his voice as he spoke, unflinching. "Better that than lie to him."  
  
James looked at his bandmate for a long moment, almost reflecting the glare directed at him. He took another gulp of his soda and spoke, voice forcibly level. "Lars, I did what I did for you. It might not have been the best thing in hindsight, but I did it so it wouldn't seem like I was kicking you when you were down."  
  
"I was never down," Lars muttered irritably, going back to inspecting his can. James's voice rose.  
  
"So if I'd told you, mid-anxiety attack on that fuckin' plane to England, that I wanted to end it, you'd have been fine about it?"  
  
Lars scowled. "Don't be so fuckin'—"  
  
He flinched, the rest of his sentence drowned out by James's angry interruption.  
  
"Well then _stop_ acting like it would have been easier any other way!"  
  
The drummer seemed to swell a little, bristling, eyes bright with bitter anger as he glared fearlessly at his bandmate, straightening fully. His voice was almost a snarl. "Seemed real fuckin' easy for you…"  
  
"Oh sure, real fuckin' easy to walk in on _my_ boy fucking that guy!"  
  
Lars snorted, masterfully covering the way his stomach did a backflip at the term James had used. _My boy._ He only ever used it when they were alone, for obvious reasons. And it was only ever followed by sex. Not this time, though. _My boy. Fandens, it still does it to me._  
  
A tense pause followed, broken by James depositing his can onto the ceramic tiles of the counter top, a metallic clunk in the silence. Lars pushed his own soda aside, not really wanting it in the first place, and began to pace again, slower this time and with his hands behind his back. James watched him for a few moments, then leaned forward and rested the heels of his palms against the edge of the counter. "I'll be straight up with you, the first couple of seconds when I saw that guy spread out open on that table, I wanted to choke him. This real ugly feeling came up inside me and I wanted to hurt him."  
  
Lars stopped pacing and looked at his bandmate, a mixture of wariness and warmth plain in his eyes. James nodded in affirmation. "Because you were mine."  
  
"I was never yours," Lars murmured. The petulant statement was countered by the fact that he took a few steps closer to the other man.  
  
James's voice dropped a little. "You were mine and I had to do something about that."  
  
Lars snorted, wry smirk twisting his lips as he stared at the ground, the memory hazing into his mind. "Yeah, fuckin' didn't you." He paused, mulling over the subsiding anger and wondering if he preferred it. After all, with anger came liberation. He didn't want to fade back into that hazy regret and pain. Fuck, he'd slowly been sinking into it for five days. "Was it good to know you can still turn me into a shivering wreck?"  
  
A little smile tugged at the corners of James's mouth. "A little bit."  
  
The mood seemed to lighten a touch; Lars returned the small smile, feeling a pleasant little flicker at James's words. He couldn't help but note that a statement like that, and the confession previous to it, would usually have him crawling all over the taller man, mouth skittering over skin and hands pulling a strong body into him, to surround him. This time…not much more than a flicker. He was thankful for that. He sidled a little closer, almost close enough to feel his bandmate's body heat.  
  
James spoke again suddenly. His words were measured, and his eyes were on the counter. "I don't know if…what I'm going to say next is going to make it worse or better, but honesty is supposed to be the best policy…"  
  
Lars nodded, gaze also dropping down to his feet. His throat tightened, stomach tying into a knot at all the possible things the other man might say – and they loosened completely at what he did say.  
  
"It's not a case of not loving you, Lars."  
  
The drummer exhaled, short and sharp, gaze swinging up to James's averted face. The frontman folded his arms, sighing, resting his elbows against the counter. His voice was quiet and steady, that low Hetfield purr that rumbled through his chest. "When I came out of rehab and I had room in my head to think about our relationship, I started to feel guilt. Guilt for Francesca, guilt for Skylar, for sneaking around behind their backs and never telling them what we had – what we'd always had. Guilt for hiding it from everyone, like I was ashamed of it or something. And then guilt for you for not being there one hundred percent, like I should have been, like we both should have been for each other…and then guilt when I realised what I had to do."  
  
 _Oh._ Lars's lips curved down slightly, a small, sullen grimace fading onto his face as his eyes grew glassy. _So basically you don't love me as much as you love her, even though I've been there for you since the beginning._  
  
James continued, shaking his head slowly and frowning down at the ceramic tiles, sounding mystified by his own words. "I've never felt guilt like that, not in the entire time we were together. It felt…it sounds so corny, but it felt right, you know? It felt right and we shouldn't have had to answer to anyone, let alone ourselves. So when the guilt came through, really strong, it skewed everything for me…it outweighed, it blocked out the feelings I had for you. That's when I realised something was wrong."  
  
Green, too bright eyes burned into James's back. Lars swallowed hard, feeling that anger surge back up into him. For a few moments it felt hard to breathe. Mouth pursing, he stepped back to pace around in a small circle, shoulders hunched and taut. The sudden rush of energy, rage and nerves and everything that had been pent up since the afterparty, all crossing over and knotting together into a dead weight in his chest…it needed to get out before he choked on it.  
  
Before he even thought about it, Lars paused in his tracks, turned and landed a hard punch into James's arm. The taller man grunted, flinching away and looking around to be faced with a vibrant glare. The glare faltered into sadness after a few seconds, gaze flicking away as James rubbed briefly at his arm.  
  
"I've got every right to punch you back, you know," he murmured.  
  
"So why don't you?" Lars returned, gaze returning to hold James's, fearless as ever. "Don't waste time talking about it when you can just do it."  
  
The two of them looked at each other, emotions passing silently between them, fluid and clear. Anguish found them both, and Lars went to his ex-lover, forehead coming down to rest against a strong shoulder. After a moment, his hands raised to settle at the bruised arm.  
  
"Billie…" Lars cleared his throat, swallowed, and continued in a quiet voice. "Billie has a wife. She…she lets him have a boyfriend, or boyfriends, or whatever…she's fine with it, as long as she's still God. There can be Presidents, as long as she's God. It's…it's like Church and State. Um…he can have men in his life to love and fuck, but she's still," he trailed off, realising he wasn't explaining it so well. He took a breath, brow furrowing against James's inked skin as he thought. "As long as she's the one and only big lady, big kahuna, then…then there's room in his life for the…little man."  
  
James chuckled softly, dipping his head to try and catch Lars's eyes. "Little man?"  
  
"Shut up."  
  
"Little elf?"  
  
Lars pressed his fingertips into James's bicep, the ghost of a smirk tracing his lips. "Shut _up_. I'm being serious."  
  
"I know you are," James sighed, hand coming up to clasp the side of Lars's neck, thumb rubbing at his jawbone. Lars stifled a shiver. "I don't know. I think…I think the guilt would still be there. I mean, it sounds…it's a pretty cool arrangement, if it works for them, and she sounds…I don't know if Francesca would understand. She's a lot like you, and," James halted the rest of his sentence. His voice dropped to just above a whisper. "I can't, Uli, I just…I can't."  
  
Lars closed his eyes reflexively at those last words. He raised his head, expression blank as he looked at his bandmate. James's hand slid from his neck.  
  
 _It's not Francesca that won't understand...it's you, isn't it?_  
  
Acute sadness crept into glittering green eyes.  
  
"I know."  
  
A solid lump formed in Lars's throat, one that he couldn't swallow away, and his eyes began to prickle. His arms ached with the need to hold, his chest ached with the need to be held. _Fuck no, no, I've been doing so well…_ Taking a staccato breath, he stepped back, away from that warm body, that warm torture. Unable to keep looking at the other man, he turned away and walked out of the room.  
  
James followed him after a while, finding the drummer sat on the leather couch in the living room. His bare feet planted on the floor, forearms resting on his thighs, he picked at his thumbnails and looked down at the hardwood between his feet. He didn't move when James approached, nor when he settled on the seat next to him, sitting back. When he finally did move, however, it was James's doing. Lars could sense he was being watched, the rise and fall of his back with each steady breath being silently observed. Occasionally, his back would shudder, some thought or memory becoming a stumbling block for his composure. After this happened twice, three times, Lars's peripheral vision caught movement, and a hand was sliding underneath his arm, along, and then the hand grasped his own and it all suddenly became a lot harder.  
  
He looked at their clasped hands, holding his breath to keep the threatening sob locked up. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK, I fucking hate you, I hate you, I hate you for doing this,_ the wretched tirade screamed through his head. _Fuck, motherfuck, you've been my fucking man for nearly twenty years and now you're taking it away from me. The last piece of fucking certainty and reliability in all my relationships, and you're taking it away._  
  
The sob escaped him, a harsh, wet breath rushing out of tight lungs. The leather beneath him squeaked quietly as he pushed himself back, bringing his legs up under him to curl against his bandmate, head lowering to lie against the broad chest. He squeezed the hand in his grasp and remained silent – words wouldn't convey the blur of emotions he felt, and he didn't believe he was capable of them anyway. Especially when James's head came to rest against his. No, just for now, he closed his eyes and let himself feel the warmth, the weight and the touch of his fucking man for what was going to be the last time.  
  
James's voice purred forth again, a pleasant vibration against Lars's ear. "Still got our band, though, right? You're not thinkin'…"  
  
Lars snorted; it came out as more of a choked whine. "Try and fuckin' make me."  
  
Time sluggishly drifted by. James didn't move. Lars didn't move. Lars wondered how plausible it would be to fall asleep like that, if there was a chance that the two of them might just be too tired to get up, that they might just drift off accidentally and wake up to a hazy dawn again. _It would be nice._  
  
His mind seemed to have other ideas. As his body settled, thoughts stirred. Thoughts not of James. _I want Billie. I want him, I_ crave _him, fucking badly. Like each time isn't quite enough. I need him, too, and it didn't start when James ended it. It came before that, in a different way, when I first fucking laid eyes on him, and it changed into something deeper. I'll acknowledge that, I'm fine with that. I accept it. I need him.  
  
But what the fuck is that about?  
  
If I had James for so long, if I had my ideal man for twenty years, and things had scarcely been better between us, why did I go to Billie at the afterparty? Why did I flirt and talk and kiss, why did I bite and taste and fuck, why did I, in my own mind at that point, risk everything me and James had…everything James had rebuilt and reforged with me? What is so fucking special about that fucking…smartmouthed, exhibitionist, girly-lipped prettyboy? If he's the exact opposite of James, the exact opposite of…of the love of my life, then…then_ why _do I need him?_  
  
He didn't have an answer. For his own sake and Billie's, he was going to need one pretty fucking soon.  
  
Pushing away those fruitless thoughts for now, Lars nuzzled his head against James's chest, eyes remaining closed. "You want another soda?" Wow, his voice was kind of fucked up.  
  
"No, no," James replied. His free hand came up to stroke at the smaller man's hair. "I'm fine right here."  
  
Lars smiled, tilting his head into the touch. He liked being petted, contrary to the grumpy aura he exuded. "This isn't a bad way for us to go out, huh?" he murmured softly, a little shakily.  
  
"Not bad at all."  
  
"Better than yelling and screaming, at any rate."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
James continued to run his fingers over the curve of Lars's head, tangling occasionally in his hair, as the two of them fell into a comfortable silence.  
  
Lars thought back to what James had said earlier. "You really would've hurt him? Because he was with me?"  
  
"If the circumstances had been hugely different, yes," James affirmed quietly. "I would've hurt him. But not because he was with you. Because _you_ were with _me_."  
  
There was a pause. The tiny smile that graced Lars's face at that faded quickly. "You know I wouldn't have let you, don't you?"  
  
"Yeah. I know." A beat, and James smiled affectionately, though Lars couldn't see. "Ya would've chewed my fuckin' arm off."  
  
"If you'd hurt him, I would've done worse than that," Lars muttered darkly.  
  
Lars's eyes opened at that, surprised at himself. His brow furrowed slightly, and James's hand stilled for a moment, he too seemingly surprised by his bandmate's admission. Before the drummer could contemplate this, though, his body acted without his consent and sat up, turning his head to look at the other man.  
  
"Would you…" Lars's gaze dropped down, momentarily embarrassed, before looking up at James through his eyelashes. He reached for the frontman's hands, pulling them to wrap around his waist as he arched his compact body against a strong torso. "I need to know something, for my own fucking sanity. So…would you…one more time?"  
  
James blinked, eyes moving from his arms now draped around a petite waist, to the green warmth now a scant few inches from his face. His eyebrows raising a little. "I…I don't know, Lars."  
  
"James," Lars interrupted, voice hushed. He tilted his head up towards the frontman, fingers rubbing lightly at his broad chest, gaze unguarded. "I just…need this. Just once more. C'mon…please…"  
  
The taller man opened his mouth to weakly protest again, closing it in the face of those emotive green eyes. "Okay," he said softly.  
  
Looking down between them, James slid his hands from the small of Lars's back to his stomach. His fingertips slipped past the waistband of the drummer's sweatpants.  
  
Lars inhaled sharply, body stiffening as his hands flew to James's wrists. "Whoa – what the fuck are you doing?!"  
  
James's gaze shot up, and the two of them stared, wide-eyed at each other for a moment. James faltered, bewildered. "But…I thought…"  
  
Lars looked almost aghast, mouth open. " _No_! I," he shook his head. "I meant _kiss_ me one more time, you moron!" At that, he dissolved into high-pitched giggles, wide grin spreading across his face as he collapsed against the other man. " _Faen_."  
  
"Oh!" James exclaimed, hands falling to rest at Lars's shaking back. He began to chuckle himself. "Oh, fuck! Shit, I think you need to get a sign, cuz I read you totally wrong then."  
  
The grin on Lars's face faded as he realised that yes, James did read him wrong. Not only that, but he himself had stopped the frontman's hands from trespassing any further into his pants. _Did I actually just stop James Hetfield from taking off my pants? From_ having sex _with me? Well holyfuckingshit, I did. Interesting._ A tiny, disbelieving laugh escaped him, and he raised his head again. "Well, now the moment's fucked up beyond all repair…"  
  
A wry smirk pulled at James's lips, before he dipped his head, pulling Lars up towards him and giving him the kiss he had asked for. The drummer arched, bringing his hands up to settle at either side of the other man's neck as his lips parted for his ex-lover. Slow, soft and silent, exchanging tastes and breath and scent, they kissed. Lars felt hands tighten at his waist, making him whine softly; James gave an answering growl. _Just like old times._  
  
The kiss ended, and as Lars's eyes drifted open, he remained close, forehead pressed to the other man's, hands having become threaded into cropped blond hair of their own accord. James seemed equally unwilling to move away. Lars swallowed. His eyes began to sting again.  
  
"Thanks," he whispered hoarsely.  
  
Throat constricting and blocking any further words he might have wanted to say, Lars pulled away, out of James's lap and off the couch. He ruffled a hand over his head, attempting to compose himself. _So, there's my answer. It wasn't a quick fix. Don't know why I ever fucking thought it might be. I still love him, it still hurts that this 'has' to happen, that kiss nearly tore my fuckin' heart out and stamped on it, and I think I might just go curl up in the corner and fucking vomit myself inside out, because holy shit if this doesn't feel like the worst hangover in the world._  
  
Taking a breath, the drummer turned around to face James, hands settling on his hips. "Um…look, um…" he attempted, eyes searching the floor for the words that were escaping him. Finally, skritching at the back of his head, he licked his lips and looked directly at the other man. "Are we…done here? I think I'm all talked out. I've got shit to do."  
  
James blinked, momentarily taken aback by Lars's abrupt change. Seeing the look on his face, though, told him they were done. He stood up. "Sure, man, I'd better…get going, go home. I gotta bring some uh…milk and stuff home, so…"  
  
Not waiting for James to finish his meandering sentence, Lars turned and headed towards the door. James, falling silent, followed.  
  
Lars leaned against the door as James passed him out into the night. The frontman patted Lars's shoulder in half-comfort as he passed him. Lars couldn't meet his eyes. Once outside, James stopped and turned halfway back, hands buried in his pockets. He tilted his head up enquiringly.  
  
"He's a good guy, right?" he murmured.  
  
Lars's eyes raised in surprise, then softened. Looking at the floor for a moment, he nodded slightly. He gave a small smile at the thought. "An excellent guy."  
  
James smiled wide. "Good. I'll see ya later."  
  
Lars nodded, James turned away, walked to his car, got in and drove away. The drummer had retreated back into his house even before the engine revved to life.  
  
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…" he hissed, punctuating each profanity by thudding his head lightly against the door, eyes squeezed shut. He opened them, drummed his fingertips against the wall, paused, then turned and walked to the kitchen. The refrigerator called him. Unfortunately, as he pulled the door open, he realised how badly he needed to go shopping. Half a crate of Diet Coke with Lemon, and one bottle of Budweiser. What the fuck was he doing with Budweiser? Must be some left over from some party some distant time ago. Fuck it, he'd take what he could get.  
  
Wandering through his empty, quiet house, open bottle in hand, Lars scowled at the ground as he shuffled on. He paused outside his office, debating, before ambling in and plopping himself down into his black leather chair. He swivelled from side to side a few times, slumped down low, bottle loose in his grasp and resting at his hipbone. His eyes strayed across the desk to the telephone, and he stilled. After a moment, he sat up, lifted the receiver and speed-dialled 5, waiting for it to start ringing before pushing the speakerphone button and setting it back into its cradle.  
  
Sitting forward to rest his chin on folded arms, he watched the phone and waited.  
  
 _"Hey, Lars."_ The speaker eventually crackled.  
  
"Hey there, Billie."  
  
A little cough. A little sniff. He kind of hated how his voice sounded.  
  
"So, um…"  
  
A hard swallow. A shaky breath. He bit the tip of his tongue.  
  
"H-how are you doing…?"  
  
And he broke.


End file.
